Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

               When Lavellan woke, it wasn’t from the throb of their head or the ache of their knees or the foreign chill of the shackles around their wrists, but rather the strange, electric burn that shot through their hand. They pulled in a tiny gasp, eyes flickering, before they forced them shut again. They took a quick tally of their situation, recognizing the stiff position they never would have fallen asleep in, their armor still in place but weapon gone, bindings keeping their hands in place. It was a long practiced trick, to gather as many details as they could before showing any real signs of waking; something their Keeper had drilled into them in the case of shemlen or monsters or even just prying eyes. It was overly-cautious, but Lavellan was nothing if not that. It granted them a scrap of control in a situation that, it was now clear, stripped them of as much control as possible.

               They made a show of stirring, pinching their brows and eyelids, shaking their head slowly before lifting it and looking around. Their eyes flickered up for the barest second, seeing two guards with swords lowered at them, though they couldn’t guess the total of their number. They pulled a look of confusion over their face, turning their left palm up to look at their shackles in false bewilderment. In the space between the performance, they tried to pull together what they could remember to force an understanding of their situation. The Conclave, that they remembered, which explained the shemlen, though they couldn’t recall what they could have done to earn shackles. The Conclave melted into the nonsensical. Something… green? With spiders, large spiders and a larger mountain, scrambling and scaling as quick as they could, jabbing the butt of their staff into insect eyes when possible. A great, glowing figure, an offered hand, and…

               Wherever that thought was heading, it was lost as a strange, sickly green light erupted in their palm like a distant star, like a supernova much too close. Their teeth ground together, a hiss of pain escaping their lips as they pulled their fingers into a fist in an instinctual move to cover the sharp sting in their palm.

               Before they could do anything else, the door of the dungeon slammed open, wood cracking against the stone wall, a chorus of sheathing swords (four sounds, four swords, four guards, finally a total count) as a woman walked—no, sauntered in. There was an air of confidence around her, not one she wore with ease, but rather long familiarity. She wore armor and a blade and authority, which was a combination they had been taught to fear in humans long, long ago. The woman in purple who followed her faded in light of the command the other wore so blatantly, but Lavellan knew quickly that was likely the point. She had that same confidence, but wore it differently, from the way her footsteps were silent to the way her eyes flickered over the entirety of them, taking in as much information as Lavellan was. Armed authority figures were a threat, but their silent reinforcers were more-so. If there was anything the Lavellan clan knew, it was that a fight was best won from the shadows. One couldn’t fight a force they couldn’t see.

               They watched in silence as the armored woman approached and circled behind them like a predator around prey, and while they didn’t like the woman at their back, there was little to be done about it. They focused their eyes ahead, on the woman in purple who stopped a few steps ahead of them.

               The armored woman bent, speaking into her ear at a volume that didn’t require such proximity, “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now.”

               They turned their eyes ahead, staring at neither woman in a move of defiance, unflinching at the threat.

               “The Conclave is destroyed,” the woman continued, resuming her slow circle toward their front. “Everyone who attended is dead.”

 News to them, and not good news—humans found ways to pin blame on elves for less.

“Except for you,” she finished, coming to step in front of them again next to the woman in purple.

Their mind raced a mile a minute, trying to find some words, some way that would get them out of this, before settling into bleakness. There would be no talking their way out of this one, even if they did remember what happened at the Conclave.

They watched irritation pass over the armored woman’s face when they kept silent.

“Explain this,” she demanded, snatching their left wrist and pulling it up, their palm lighting up as if on cue. A muscle in their jaw jumped at the pain, but they kept their face blank. Never show weakness, not to anyone outside the clan.

She threw their arm back down and walked behind them again.

They only had the briefest moment to make their decision. They could play innocent, widen their eyes and bat their lashes in a plea for mercy. Or they could be stubborn.

Their Keeper always said they were bull-headed.

“I… can’t,” they said, when it was clear the woman would wait for an answer.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” the woman snapped, circling back to their front as the red-haired woman walked behind them.

“Sometimes,” they remembered their Keeper saying, “the best way to hide is in a lie, but sometimes, the best cover is an unbelievable truth.”

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there,” they said, truthfully and calmly, though they knew the women were expecting nerves, if not fear. Never show weakness to anyone outside the clan.

               “You’re lying!” the woman snapped, stepping in front of them and stooping, finally losing the temper she had barely been holding to begin with. In the face of that anger, Lavellan only blinked slowly and raised an eyebrow as the woman in purple grabbed her arm and hauled her back a few paces.

               “We need her—” they were wondering which assumption they would make, good to finally have an answer, “—Cassandra.”

               They looked between the women, and that single eyebrow still raised when they turned back to them.

               “So, what happens now?” they asked, keeping their tone cool and level.

               “Do you remember what happened? How this began?”

               This was a fine line to walk. They could lie and spin a story, but improvised lies too often developed holes as one danced to try and remember what they had already said and not contradict themselves while also achieving the effect aimed for when they started lying to begin with. They could remain silent and uncooperative, and while it would be satisfying to be petty, they did not forget the armed guards just because their swords were now sheathed. That left the middle road, begrudgingly given honesty, providing just enough detail to seem at least a little helpful.

               Which would have been far more effective if they could remember anything about what had happened.

               They let their eyes shut, ducking their head just barely, face a mask of concentration.

               “I remember running. Things were chasing me. And then… a woman?” They barely remembered the glowing figure, but it was a detail, something concrete to cite, something to give to sate their interrogator just enough that she wouldn’t believe they were outright lying.

               “A woman?” the woman in purple asked, eyes narrowing.

               Lavellan nodded, looking up to meet her eyes, glad that she had taken the bait.

               “She reached out to me, but then…” their voice trailed off, and this time both women gave them an appraising look.

               Without glancing back at the red-haired woman, Cassandra said, “Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift.”

               The other woman, Leliana, ducked out of the room as Cassandra reached down and hauled Lavellan up by their manacles. She traded the shackles for rope bindings, and Lavellan didn’t miss the way that the shackles only came off once the rope was in place. She was taking no chances, and her care for detail said nothing good for their situation.

               “What did happen?” Lavellan asked, both them and Cassandra watching her hands work the bindings.

               “It will be easier to show you,” she answered, climbing to her feet and turning before Lavellan was even upright yet, leading the way with the confidence of someone used to others following without needing to be told. It rubbed Lavellan the wrong way.

               They rolled their shoulders, working out kinks, walking carefully to compensate for the pins and needles from kneeling too long. They didn’t glance toward the guards, but could see them staring as they passed in their peripherals. As they walked, Lavellan could hear their Keeper, knew the speech she would give for this moment.

               “When you are separated from the clan, you have nothing to rely on but yourself. Here, you have the eyes and ears and instincts of all of your kin. If you miss something, they will see it for you. Alone, you must do the job of the whole clan, and it simply isn’t possible. You will miss something—you always will, when separated from us. All you can do is be sure what you miss isn’t important.”

               As they walked, Lavellan kept their eyes moving, their ears listening. They were careful to keep watch over Cassandra’s weapon, as well as the guards they passed. They couldn’t divide their attention too far, couldn’t listen to every conversation at once, couldn’t keep their eyes trained on every face, but they could hear the tone, see expressions at a glance. No Dalish elf was safe surrounded by shemlen, but a Dalish elf, surrounded by not only armed, but hostile humans, was in a particularly bad place.

               Their attention was immediately diverted, the second they stepped outside. Leaving a building always felt freeing, to feel wind in their hair and dirt under their toes, to smell the ice and snow and blink until their eyes could accept the brightness of the sun again. That was all there, certainly, but it was immediately buried under the sinking feeling in their stomach as they looked up.

               The green almost looked like lightning, flickering and shooting through the clouds, but it was sickly and wrong and familiar, they thought, glancing down at their hand before focusing on the long line of that green splitting the skies.

               “We call it the Breach,” Cassandra said, eyes locked on it, much as Lavellan’s eyes returned to lock onto her back—she was the immediate threat. “It’s a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

               Lavellan narrowed their eyes, asking, “An explosion can do that?” They had seen many a magical explosion and many a mundane one, but none had caused any sort of rift like this, much less one so large.

               “This one did,” Cassandra said, approaching them again. “Unless we act, the breach may grow until it swallows the world.”

               There was something there, an implication Lavellan didn’t like. Somehow, “we” sounded an awful lot like “you.” Like most Dalish elves, Lavellan wasn’t particularly fond of being given orders by humans, for many, many reasons. Even if it wasn’t a point of pride, there was the simple fact that humans didn’t see them as people, not really. They were expendable. Send the rabbit, the knife-ear to do it—it doesn’t matter if they die, and whether or not they did, they were a perfect scapegoat for anything that could go wrong. They would be sent on a fool’s errand, a goose-chase with only a knife in the back waiting at the end, whether the blade was physical or metaphorical.

               The thought was brief, more of a gut instinct, an instant understanding rather than a full thought, and it was interrupted before it could leave more than an impression. The Breach crackled, flashing and spreading like a spider-web, but they barely caught more than a glimpse before they collapsed to their knees, their palm turning supernova. They gasped in pain as they fell, pulling their left hand to their stomach and curling around it, cradling the pain and hissing through their teeth.

               “Never show weakness to anyone outside the clan” was a fine principle, but not always particularly plausible.

               Nothing made that more clear than when Cassandra rushed up, kneeling before them, taking their moment of weakness to force her point.

               “Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you,” yes, because Cassandra cared so much for their safety, it wasn’t an attempt to force their cooperation through selfishness and fear, not at all. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.” It was a reasonable argument, and appealing to the fear for one’s life was often very convincing, but it also felt like a dirty trick, considering the fact that one word from her, and their life would be forfeit, or they would try to force their cooperation through pain. If they truly believed that Lavellan’s aid was their only hope, Lavellan knew full well there was little they wouldn’t do to force it from them.

               To force help from her prisoner.

               Who she believed was responsible for the entire mess.

               Because being given both the blame for the situation and responsibility for fixing it was reasonable and fair.

               They couldn’t stop the way their upper lip curled.

               “You still think I did this? To myself?” Their tone left little doubt for their current opinion of Cassandra’s intelligence, and the woman took as kindly to the implication as Lavellan did the situation.

               “Not intentionally. Something clearly went wrong.”

               Ah, so not only were they malicious and wicked and responsible for the possible apocalypse, they were also incompetent.

               It didn’t make them particularly inclined to be helpful.

               “So I don’t really have a choice about this,” they said, distinctly a statement, not a question. They could watch the disapproval stain Cassandra’s face. Creators, but the arrogance of humans, to think only to threaten and command and then be angry when they weren’t jumping at the chance to offer help.

               Cassandra stood, pulling Lavellan with her, before leading them through the town. The streets were lined with disapproving, angry humans. Lavellan couldn’t help the way their shoulders shifted up toward their ears, tensing. Being surrounded not only by humans, but by furious humans who blamed them for some a crime they didn’t commit, without the support of their clan around them. It was a nightmare come to life, and Lavellan was very, very sure, that if Cassandra wasn’t there, the villagers would not have stopped at glaring.

               “They have decided your guilt,” she said when she noticed where their attention had diverted to. “They need it. The people of Haven mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together. Now, they are dead.”

               Lavellan could all but hear “and it’s your fault” lingering after her sentence. Because the Lavellan clan had ever had cause to meddle in the affairs of humans. Keep an eye on the state of their conflicts, yes, because those spilled over, overran the limits of their cities and villages, into the wild spaces the Lavellans called home, spilling elvhen blood over human squabbles.

               The guards stationed at the gate they approached opened it for them, needing nothing more than Cassandra’s presence to spring into action.

               “We lash out like the sky,” she said, an understatement if Lavellan had ever heard one. “But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did.” Read: you must think beyond yourself, Lavellan, and fix this heinous crime that you are obviously responsible for. “Until the Breach is sealed.”

               When she turned, brandishing a knife, Lavellan couldn’t help but go still. Had they been too combative? Too uncooperative? Was it too much effort to try and get them to help, better to kill them now and save the hassle? Lavellan held their breath without realizing.

               “There will be a trial. I can promise no more,” she said, and when she looked into their eyes, there was a look of knowing, of understanding. As if she knew what they feared in that moment, and knew it wasn’t unreasonable. As if she knew that, regardless of where she thought the blame and responsibility rested, they deserved a chance, that justice deserved a chance, though that was a courtesy few humans extended to elves.

               The look lasted no longer than a second, understanding passing between them, before Cassandra pulled up their wrists and swiped her dagger through the bindings. Lavellan watched them fall to the ground in silence, surprise, and confusion.

               “Come,” she said, turning to face the gate. “It is not far.”

               It took a second for Lavellan to follow, needing to take a few quick steps to catch up, saying, “Where are you taking me?”

               “Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach,” Cassandra said as they fell in line with her brisk pace. As they approached the next gate, she yelled, “Open the gate! We are headed into the valley!”

               As before, the guards immediately followed orders, the gate opening before they even reached it. Lavellan felt themselves relax the second they passed it; the bridge was full of death and blood and humans and rubble. The other side was trees and rocks and snow that crunched between their toes. There was still death and blood and humans and rubble, but at least it was surrounded by something that at least hinted at home.

               They ran forward, passing the soldiers, alive and fighting and bleeding and dead, until that pain flared again, as bright as the light in their palm, shooting up their arm. Lavellan stumbled, catching themselves on one hand and knee, though Cassandra was quick to catch their elbow and haul them upright.

               “The pulses are coming faster now. The larger the Breach grows, the more rifts appear, the more demons we face.” She left the rest implied, that the star in their hand would also grow, that the body count would grow, that the blame would grow. Lavellan gritted their teeth and forced them back to a run.

               “How did I survive the blast?” Might as well try to get what information they could, while Cassandra was willing to speak to them, as misplaced blame and their inability to solve a problem they didn’t understand.

               “They said you… stepped out of a rift, then fell unconscious. They say a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste, including the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I suppose you’ll see soon enough.”

                It fit the pieces of memory they did have. The green that surrounded that mountain covered in spiders did match the green of the rifts. The woman others saw might have been the glowing silhouette they remembered. Still, they didn’t like the sound of her last sentence.

               Distracted with the puzzle pieces of memory, the landscape passed in a blur, snow and ice and bridges and footpaths melding together until it all came to a screeching halt, a boulder shooting out from a rift and directly through the bridge they were on. Lavellan only barely manage to catch themselves, popping to their feet as quick as they could, but Cassandra was not only already on her feet, but was already armed.

               When Lavellan finally looked up, it was to see a Shade forming in front of them on the frozen surface of the river. It was a familiar figure, one they’d seen drawn in books and sculpted from the Fade in dreams. They took a step back, hand reaching up over their shoulder to grab a staff that they only realized wasn’t there when their hand grasped at nothing.

               “Stay behind me!” Cassandra called, rushing forward.

               Because that was a safe strategy.

               Lavellan groaned in frustration as a second Shade began to form, cursing their luck, and cursing their previous thought for guaranteeing this situation would develop. They turned, looking around, casting about for anything that could help. A mage was a mage, weapon or no, and they could manage this if they had to. But a mage with no weapon just wasn’t comparable to one armed, making Lavellan wildly relieved when they saw a staff lying next to a stack of crates. It was poorly made, the wood and metal choice all wrong and the construction leaving much to be desired. It was the sort of staff given to a child, meant to give only a limited amount of power, more of a tool to learn control than a true weapon. Still, it was better than nothing, so Lavellan rushed forward and snatched it up.

               They lost themselves into the rhythm of battle, twirling and thrusting and slamming their staff in a dance they learned long ago. Their focus instead was on actually using the staff, trying to force as much power through the weak conduit that it was.

               Mediocre (at best) weapon or no, the Shades fell quickly. Lavellan rested the butt of their staff on the ice, holding it to their side as they caught their breath.

               “It’s over,” they said, more to themselves than Cassandra, looking at the piles of what seemed to be bones coated in green slime, wrinkling their nose at the sight. The battle had been a distraction, and they had almost forgotten their situation, right up until Cassandra came forward and lowered her weapons at them.

               “Drop your weapon. Now,” she said, voice low, a threat and a command.

               Lavellan sighed and rolled their eyes, the response slipping out despite their best intentions. They were supposed to be on their best behavior, set on surviving this stupidity and Cassandra’s misplaced blame. They didn’t need to antagonize her, but the battle distracted them enough that the instinctual reaction slipped out without them thinking.

               “Do you really think I need a staff to be dangerous?” they asked, head tilted to one side, settling their weight in one hip. This was ridiculous. They knew that humans had strange ideas about magic, but certainly they weren’t that clueless.

               Cassandra narrowed her eyes, saying, “Is that supposed to reassure me?”

               “I haven’t used my magic on you yet,” they pointed out, watching Cassandra begrudgingly accept the point. She shifted back and lowered her guard.

               “You’re right,” she conceded, and Lavellan’s eyebrow rose in response. “You don’t need a staff, but you should have one. I cannot protect you, and I cannot expect you to be defenseless.” Cassandra turned and took a few steps before pausing, turning her head just slightly to look over her shoulder before saying, “I should remember that you did not attempt to run.”

               Lavellan frowned. They weren’t used to humans being reasonable, much less conceding a point, even less allowing an elf to be armed and trusted not to kill them the second their back was turned.

               Cassandra turned and tossed a bag to Lavellan, who caught it on reflex alone. She turned and began walking up the hill, saying, “Take these potions. Maker knows what we will face.”

               Lavellan’s frown deepened as they followed. Maybe this was her attempt to keep them alive long enough to be put on trial and be a formal scapegoat.

               Or maybe you’ve been oversimplifying humans, the way they oversimplify elves, their mind whispered, but they forcefully put that aside. They were no stranger to humans. Their opinion on them was formed from experience, not prejudice (at least they thought so), and even if Cassandra was different, she would be one exception to the rule, and that alone.

               Perhaps it was the distraction of that thought, but the rest became a blur. There was ice and snow, explosions, impacts of falling rock. Lavellan was splattered with snow, with blood, with the gooey residue left behind when the demons died. They remembered Cassandra yelling, giving them warnings and advice, and they remembered calling back their own recommendations and cautions, built on experience in the Fade and generations’ worth of knowledge, passed through the Lavellans. They pointedly did not think about the way they worked together well, how they fell into an easy rhythm, how, if for nothing more than a moment, it didn’t matter that they were an elf and she was a human, they were simply people trying to fight their way through to survival.

               “We’re getting close to the rift. You can hear the fighting,” Cassandra called, jumping over a step that had a corpse blocking it. Lavellan wrinkled their nose at the sight, but hurried up the stairs with her.

               “Who’s fighting?”

               “You’ll see soon enough. We must help them.”

               Again, Cassandra’s determination to help, to save. It was a noble instinct, even if her application left something to be desired.

               Cassandra used a boulder as a springboard, leaping over a broken stone wall and into the fray, crashing her shield right into a demon with all her momentum behind her. Lavellan vaulted the wall with one hand and much less fanfare, settling in with it at their back before sliding back into their spellwork.

               Somehow, through the fight, Lavellan wove their way forward, closer to the heart of the battle than they usually dared, but sinking the butt of their staff into an eye-socket and watching the demon crumble was worth the risk. Seeing no more around, Lavellan lowered their staff, lifting their left hand to brush their hair from their face, only for it to be snatched.

               “Quickly, before more come through!”

               Lavellan didn’t even have the time to look to the stranger, too distracted by the way their palm flashed toward the rift. There was the feeling of something tearing, and Lavellan had to grit their teeth together to keep quiet, until the rift snapped shut, and the tension disappeared, leaving a strange satisfaction coursing through them.

               The hand disappeared from their wrist and Lavellan lowered their hand, their right hand around their left wrist, flexing their hand as they looked to the strange newcomer. An elf, not Dalish by the lack of vallaslin, but his clothes read hand-made, something stitched together from practice and scrounged together supplies, not the ready-made, bought clothes or overly simple garments of the alienages. There was the matter of his accent, something strange to it, not anything Dalish, but also missing that human lilt that alienage elves tended to pick up. They looked at him with curiosity, but kept their suspicion. He was likely less dangerous than a human, but anyone outside the clan was an unknown, and any unknown was a threat. Letting down their guard with nothing but the shape of his ears would be foolish.

               “What did you do?” they asked, suspicious, unsure of this stranger who seemed to know more about the mark in their palm than they did.

               “I did nothing. The credit is yours,” he said, hands clasping together, content in humility. His words and humility rubbed them wrong—he did do something, and they both knew it. Perhaps the power was theirs, but he was the one who just wielded it. They preferred the truth to pretty kindnesses, but couldn’t quite hold that against him. Polite words and humility kept one safe, made one seem harmless and friendly, won trust that wasn’t necessarily earned. It was a defense that Lavellan never quite mastered, but one they understood and could appreciate.

               “You mean this?” they said, holding their palm just a little higher.

               “Whatever magic opened the Breach in the sky also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized the mark might be able to close the rifts that have opened in the Breach’s wake – and it seems I was correct,” he explained, and Lavellan added “patience” to the list of traits—or rather, presented traits—that the man seemed to have. It reminded them of their Keeper, the word “hahren” on the tip of their tongue.

               “Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra concluded.

               The elf nodded slightly, saying, “Possibly.” He then turned to Lavellan, something strange in his tone as he said, “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” It might have been approval, might have been relief, might have been amusement.

               “Good to know!” said the crossbow-wielding dwarf that they had seen in the battle with eerily impressive aim, shouldering his weapon as he approached. “Here I thought we’d be ass-deep in demons forever.” The dwarf inclined his head, a hint of a smile on his face as he continued, “Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong.”

               When he turned to wink at Cassandra and she scowled, a crack in her air of seriousness, Lavellan decided they liked the dwarf.

               All they needed was one look at the elf to know he didn’t quite fit with the rest of the people they had seen since waking, but they didn’t know dwarves well enough to draw the same conclusion with Varric.

               “Are you with the Chantry, or…?” they asked, and were instantly glad for the cold when they heard the elf chuckle to himself; they were sure the tips of their ears would have turned pink if the wind hadn’t done that already.

               “Was that a serious question?” the elf asked, turning away.

               A frown twitched on Lavellan’s lips. They had seen no one but Chantry soldiers and followers since they woke; it really wasn’t that unreasonable a conclusion.

               “Technically, I’m a prisoner, just like you,” he clarified, seeming more amused than concerned by that fact.

               “I brought you here to tell your story to the Divine,” Cassandra said, scowling. “Clearly, that is no longer necessary.”

               “Yet, here I am. Lucky for you, considering current events.”

               Despite being an alleged prisoner, Varric seemed utterly unbothered by Cassandra and his casual irreverence was heartening, if nothing else.

               Lavellan was surprised to find themselves sincere when they said, “It’s good to meet you, Varric.”

               “You may reconsider that stance in time,” the elf said, an air of humor in his tone.

               The humor carried over into Varric’s as he said, “Aww. I’m sure we’ll become real great friends in the valley, Solas.

               “Absolutely not,” Cassandra interrupting, erasing any lingering good cheer. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but…”

               The dwarf raised his eyebrows in challenge, saying, “Have you been in the valley lately, Seeker? Your soldiers aren’t in control anymore. You need me.”

               Cassandra turned away with a noise of disgust; this only made Varric look victorious.

               Interrupting the squabble, the other elf approached and said, “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I’m pleased to see you still live.”

               Varric snorted, adding, “He means ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’”

               “You seem to know a great deal about it all,” Lavellan said, tone even and polite. If Solas had any information about their situation, they needed it. The humility he wrapped himself in was familiar, something they had seen many times from people who loved the chance to explain, even brag, if given the right opportunity so that they could do so while still acting humble.

               Cassandra interrupted instead, disgust apparently fading as Varric’s role in the conversation did.

               “Like you, Solas in an apostate,” she explained.

               In the same maneuver he had done before, Solas clasped his hands in front of himself. The pose read “hahren” to them, clear as day—perhaps that was where the mix of humility and desire to brag came from.

               “Technically, all mages are now apostates, Cassandra,” he said, and Lavellan had to hold back their snort of laughter. It was true, but also cheeky in a way they didn’t expect. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. I came to offer whatever help I can give with the Breach. If it is not closed, we are all doomed regardless of origin.”

               They knew what he meant to say, that he had something to offer and was only doing his part, that everyone needed to do their part if any were to survive, that he was doing the minimum—and the more Lavellan experienced of the situation, the more inclined they were to agree. But there was also an undercurrent, perhaps one they only thought of because the word “hahren” was still dancing around their mind, but they found the ego in it, the implication that he might be the difference in saving them from “doom.”

               Lavellan had to hide their grin at the thought. They had always found that confidence that edged on cockiness to be entertaining, especially when unfounded. They told themselves firmly that, as far as they knew, it was unfounded, even if his theory about their mark and the rift was proven true. Mostly, they insisted it to themselves because they knew they also found that cockiness to be attractive when it was justified, and that distraction was the last thing they needed right now.

               “And when this is over?” they said, trying to push the edge of that confidence, seeing if he was looking for praise.

               “One hopes that those in power will remember who helped, and who did not.”

               That could go either way. Perhaps he was seeking praise in that remembrance, perhaps it was only a realistic assessment of the situation—he was an elven apostate surrounded by the Chantry, at risk by merely being there, but decided to stay regardless. Either confidence or nobility.

               Also not what they should be focusing on right now.

               “Cassandra,” Solas said, turning to the woman. “You should know: the magic involved here is unlike any I have ever seen. Your prisoner is a mage, but I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

               “Understood. We must get to the forward camp quickly,” she said, and Lavellan looked between her and Solas in confusion. They had never seen a human, much less a Chantry-devoted human, take any mage at their word, much less an elvhen apostate. They couldn’t help but wonder what in the world Solas had done to prove himself.

               “Well, Bianca’s excited!” Varric declared, dropping the weapon from his shoulder to his palm. Lavellan quirked a brow, wondering why he had decided to name his weapon, even more curious as to where the name came from, but put the matter to the side.

               “This way, down the bank. The road ahead is blocked,” Cassandra said, already moving toward the path.

               “We must move quickly,” Solas added, and, unknowingly, both Varric and Lavellan rolled their eyes in time at the unnecessary announcement. There was that image of the hahren again, needing to lead even when others were in charge. Their eye roll was softened by the upward quirk of their lips. They had to admit, it was a little endearing.

               Lavellan brought up the rear of the group, as each vaulted the boarded up pass with ease, before setting off down the path.

               If nothing else, the addition of Varric and Solas severely alleviated the tense seriousness that followed Cassandra—a significant improvement.

Chapter Text

               The trip toward the Breach was punctuated with battle and death and demons, but perhaps more disconcerting to Lavellan was the heavy silence that hung over the group. They knew next to nothing of the other three, who knew next to nothing of them. They had no idea what sort of topic they could have used to start a conversation that wouldn’t be more awkward than the silence itself. Lavellan was never necessarily someone who needed noise to feel comfortable. It was just that this silence was so tense, and they could see it in everyone, from elevated shoulders to clenched jaws to tight fists.

               And so it was both a blessing and a curse when Solas decided to try conversation. A blessing that it broke the silence, a curse in his choice of topic.

               “You are Dalish, but clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?” He said it with a politeness so calm that it read fake. His expression was even as he glanced toward them. They weren’t sure what his opinion on the Dalish was, only that there was decidedly some strong feeling lurking there.

               Lavellan hated few things as much as they hated discussing the Dalish with outsiders. There tended to be misunderstandings and misgivings, hurt feelings and confusion, from both parties. And despite the fact that Solas was clearly not from an alienage, he was also clearly not Dalish.

               “What do you know of the Dalish?” they asked, matching his careful politeness, trying to gauge the situation, despite their conviction that this would end poorly.

               “I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

               Your people. Decidedly not Dalish then. Yet “crossing paths” meant that he hadn’t spent much time with a clan before, and they knew well how the Dalish looked to outsiders.

               “What do you mean by ‘crossed paths?’” they asked, keeping that evenness in their tone. When they glanced over, they made eye contact with Solas, who simply looked away again.

               “I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

               There it was. They knew there was some sort of negativity there, and that hostility confirmed it.

               Lavellan hummed quietly before saying, “Strange, I can’t see why a complete stranger waltzing into a community claiming to know their culture better than they do might be received poorly.”

               They could feel Solas’s eyes cut toward them, could sense his disapproval, but was glad when Varric interrupted, saying, “Can’t you elves just play nice for once?”

               Lavellan had something sarcastic on the tip of their tongue, but the light in their palm flared, and they stumbled, gasping in pain. They couldn’t deny being a little surprised when it was Solas who caught their elbow, keeping them upright.

               “We must hurry, before the Mark consumes them,” he insisted to Cassandra, holding eye contact with her even when Lavellan looked up at him sharply, in surprise. Few people got their pronouns right on the first try, and no one who wasn’t Dalish had even thought to ask before.

               They quickly took off again, a little more urgency in their stride, but Lavellan found themselves looking at Solas’s back more and more as they went.

               “So… are you innocent?” Varric said, deciding it was his turn to break the tense silence.

               “I don’t remember what happened,” they said, keeping to their decision for honesty.

               Varric sighed and shook his head, saying, “That’ll get you every time. Should have spun a story.”

               “That’s what you would have done,” Cassandra said. Lavellan was a little surprised to hear that the woman actually believed their honesty, and firmly decided to never tell her that they had, in fact, seriously considered doing just what Varric suggested.

               “It’s more believable,” he insisted, “and less prone to result in premature execution.”

               It was an argument with merit, Lavellan knew, despite the fact that Cassandra rolled her eyes.

               It was easy to lose themselves in the rhythm of battle that the four settled into. They plowed through demons and shades and wraiths and Lavellan entirely failed to keep track of them all. It took sealing another rift and being brought onto another bridge, stuffed full of humans, to bring their focus back to present.

               As Cassandra brought them forward, Lavellan couldn’t help but grow tenser. They actively focused on keeping their muscles relaxed, their gait smooth, their expression even. Leliana was arguing with a man in Chantry robes, which was the exact last situation Lavellan wanted to enter. If the humans were being hostile with each other, it didn’t say much for how they would treat them.

                “We must prepare the soldiers!” Lavellan heard Leliana insist

               The man answered, matching her irritation, “We will do no such thing.”

               “The prisoner,” ah, yes, the prisoner, always the prisoner, how could they have forgotten, “must get to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It is our only chance!”

               “You have already caused enough trouble without resorting to this exercise in futility.”

                “I have caused trouble?”

               “You, Cassandra, the Most Holy – haven’t you all done enough already?”

               “You’re not in command here!”

               “Enough! I will not have it!”

               There was a certain amount of entertainment that came with watching human squabbles, their seeming inability to set aside their differences for the greater good, but the usual amusement they would have felt was lacking. They weren’t fond of Leliana, not particularly fond of anyone present, but at least Leliana wanted them alive. In this case, the power struggle was their business, as much as it was the shemlen’s. They had a decidedly large stake in how this turned out, but knew that interrupting, voicing their opinion was more likely to backfire than anything.

               As the two finally noticed their approach, the man said, “Ah, here they come.”

               “You made it,” Leliana said with obvious relief. “Chancellor Roderick, this is–”

               “I know who he is.” It was “he” this time; they would have thought that when word spread, as it evidently did, the shemlen would at least pick one pronoun and stick to it. “As Grand Chancellor of the Chantry, I hereby order you to take this criminal to Val Royeaux to face execution.”

               “'Order me’?” Cassandra said with distaste and a sneer, upper lip curling. “You are a glorified clerk. A bureaucrat!”

               “And you are a thug,” he countered, matching Cassandra’s distaste with distain, “but a thug who supposedly serves the Chantry!”

               “We serve the Most Holy, Chancellor, as you well know,” Leliana interrupted, tone level, appearing to be the reasonable one in comparison to Cassandra and Roderick’s attitudes.

               “Justinia is dead!” Roderick snapped. “We must elect her replacement, and obey her orders on the matter.”

               Lavellan knew that it was in their best interest to behave. These people held their life in their hands. It would be best to appear meek, to make themselves small, to look as harmless as possible. But, as their Keeper loved to tell them, their pride and temper were determined to get them in trouble.

               “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here,” they interrupted, their hand tightening into a fist at their side. Creators, but that human arrogance. Always making decisions for others, never giving a damn about what they might think. Prisoner or no, it was no way to treat someone. They might not be human, but they were a person, and should be treated as one.

               Of course, this was taken poorly, as Roderick looked offended that they had the gall to speak at all.

               “You shouldn’t even be here!” he snapped.

               Their second hand curled into a fist, but before they could even argue, he turned away, ignoring them, to address Cassandra.

               “Call a retreat, Seeker,” he said. “Our position here is hopeless.”

               “We can stop this before it’s too late,” Cassandra insisted, brows pinched as she scowled.

               “How? You won’t survive long enough to reach the Temple, even with all your soldiers,” he countered, matching her frown.

               “We must get to the Temple. It’s the quickest route.”

               “But not the safest,” Leliana interrupted. “Our forces can charge as a distraction while we go through the mountains.”

               Cassandra shook her head, saying, “We lost contact with an entire squad on that path. It’s too risky.”

               They watched as a muscle in Roderick’s cheek jumped in irritation.

               “Listen to me. Abandon this now, before more lives are lost,” he snapped, but the last few words were lost to Lavellan at the swelling burn in their palm, their Mark spreading in time with the Breach. They stumbled, but caught sight Solas’s hand twitch forward a few inches, ready to catch them again. They didn’t know how to feel about it; was it a sign that he found them weak, that he simply liked them and wanted to help, that he was just the type to reach out to help, no matter what?

               Solas was the only one who moved to offer aid, but all eyes turned to them—or rather, to the Mark, and then to them.

               “How do you think we should proceed?” Cassandra asked, much to Lavellan’s confusion.

               Both of Lavellan’s eyebrows were raised when they said, “Now you’re asking me what I think?”

               “You have the Mark,” Solas said, which was a valid point, but also not one that they expected the shemlen to think of, much less honor.

               They were proven wrong when Cassandra said, “And you are the one we must keep alive. Since we cannot agree on our own…”

               It was significantly more reasonable than Lavellan was used to humans behaving, but then again, there was the look on Roderick’s face, which said clearly that he didn’t think they should have any part in this decision. It was that look, more than anything, that motivated them to actually make a decision.

               “Use the mountain path,” they said, slipping into the role of leadership with relative ease; if being a First taught them nothing else, it was how to lead with comfort. “Work together. You all know what’s at stake.”

               Perhaps it was asking for too much, considering that, from what they had seen, the Chantry humans could agree on very little. Yet somehow, Cassandra nodded, Leliana lifted her chin, and Roderick remained silent.

               “Leliana,” Cassandra said, turning to the woman. “Bring everyone into the valley. Everyone.”

               The woman nodded, and their group reformed, passing Roderick and his table covered in maps.

               “On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” he hissed. Lavellan glanced over to Cassandra, whose face was stoic and eyes steel. They knew that, if she had her way, they would have charged up through the valley. Yet she agreed to follow their decision, to enforce it, to accept the consequences for it, if there were any.

               Lavellan had no idea what to make of it.

Chapter Text

As the group approached, Cassandra said, “That is where you walked out the Fade and our soldiers found you. They said a woman was in the rift behind you. No one knows who she was.”

It was background noise. It was irrelevant. As they moved through the ruins of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, mangled corpses littered the passages and destroyed chambers. They were twisted in agony, some still burning in the pose of their last breath. Until this point, Lavellan had come along because they had no other choice in the matter. They would have long since turned tail simply to spite the shemlen who attempted to order them around as if they were one of their ranks, as if they were inferior. They hadn’t looked past that, concerned only with pettiness and their own life, both from execution and the star in their palm.

But if the sight of the Temple did nothing else, it showed Lavellan the reality of the situation. The humans were right to be so afraid. They were still wrapped in the whirlwind they’d been in since they woke up, and that inability to really stop and think was part of why they had been so blinded. It took the harsh reality to impress on them how many people had died. Lavellan disliked other races, particularly humans, because of how they’d seen those groups treat their people. But this sort of wholesale slaughter was past race. If they could help fix this, they needed to. Doing nothing wouldn’t be right. It would be worse than the most awful treatment the Lavellans had received from shemlen.

It wasn’t until they truly came close to the Breach that Lavellan snapped out of their contemplation, partially because Varric said, “The Breach is a long way up.”

Lavellan thought it to be an understatement.

They were still staring in surprise and wonder at the huge tear in the sky as Leliana approached with her soldiers, saying, “You’re here! Thank the Maker.”

Lavellan still didn’t turn their eyes away from the Breach. They were fixated on it.

“Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.”

They didn’t realize they were being spoken to until halfway through Cassandra’s next sentence.

“This is your chance to end this. Are you ready?” she asked. Lavellan shifted their eyes over to her, taking her in. This woman had nothing but contempt for them when they first met, but promised them a trial and a chance. She feared them to be a mass murderer, but let them keep a weapon and willingly turned her back to them in battle. They hadn’t known Cassandra for very long, and while they still didn’t think they could trust her, still didn’t think she’d be able to look past the human disdain for elves, it wouldn’t be right to dismiss her. She was doing everything she could to fix a dire situation. It was a respectable cause, and it would be beneath them to turn away now.

“I’ll try, but I don’t know if I can reach that, much less close it,” they said, turning their eyes back up to the Breach briefly, before peeling them away and moving on.

               “No,” Solas interrupted. “This rift was the first and is the key. Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

 “Then let’s find a way down. And be careful,” Cassandra said, no hostility in her tone, only a warning.

Lavellan was nervous as they moved through the ruins. The Breach was huge, spilling out energy that sparked against their skin and made the mark in their palm sting. Their anxiety only grew worse when the disembodied voice began.

“Now is the hour of our victory. Bring forth the sacrifice.”

Lavellan frowned, confused and concerned. Ominous words to say the least.

They were in the process of looking to Cassandra for answers when she said, “What are we hearing?”

They weren’t the only one with no answers. Great.

“At a guess: the person who created the Breach,” Solas suggested. The idea made their skin crawl.

They continued moving through the ruins, passing Leliana’s archers, jumping over small piles of rubble until they came to a large, jutting cluster of red stone. It put off an energy Lavellan didn’t like, and they had the distinct feeling that if the Breach wasn’t there with its own overwhelming power, the aura of the stone would have been beyond disconcerting.

“You know this stuff is red lyrium, Seeker,” Varric said, and for the first time, there was something anxious in his tone. Lavellan looked at him quickly. They knew lyrium, knew its function, had used it many times, and knew how human mages relied on it like a crutch. They’d never heard of red lyrium before, though.

“I see it, Varric,” she said, and it would have sounded dismissive, if it didn’t also sound nervous.

“But what’s it doing here?” he asked. Strange. Lavellan had assumed it was simply something that cropped up in this area.

“Magic could have drawn on the lyrium beneath the Temple, corrupted it…” Solas offered. It was the most sensible part of the conversation. There was something wrong with the energy of the lyrium, and it being corrupted would make sense.

“It’s evil,” Varric said, almost a hiss. “Whatever you do, don’t touch it.”

Lavellan opened their mouth to ask more questions, but was cut off by that empty voice again.

“Keep the sacrifice still.”

“Someone, help me!” a woman cried, though this voice also came from the empty air.

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra gasped.

More pieces were falling into place about the last night of the Conclave. They were mostly glad that this should help prove their innocence.

It wasn’t until they were approaching the Breach itself that the Divine’s voice repeated, “Someone, help me!”

“What’s going on here?” Lavellan’s voice echoed from the air. The rest of their party looked toward them, but they were busy staring up at the Breach in confusion.

“That was your voice,” Cassandra said, surprised and confused. “Most Holy called out to you. But…”

There was a blinding flash of white that faded just enough to be a backdrop. The figure of Divine Justinia, translucent and spirit-like, hung in the air, suspended by spiraling tendrils of red energy around her arms. A tall, dark figure with glowing red eyes loomed over her, turning to look over its shoulder as a ghostly Lavellan appeared in the room.

“What’s going on here?” they repeated.

“Run while you can! Warn them!” the Divine called, but the shadow of Lavellan was looking between the two figures in confusion. The scene progressed too quickly for them to really figure out what was happening.

“We have an intruder. Slay the elf,” the tall figure said, turning back to Justinia before the scene was cut off by another flash of white and all the apparitions disappeared as if they had never been there.

“You were there!” Cassandra said, grabbing Lavellan by the shoulders and making them face her, forcing their eyes away from where they were staring at the last sign of those figures. “Who attacked? And the Divine, is she…? Was this vision true? What are we seeing?”

“I don’t know!” Lavellan answered, Cassandra’s frantic energy spreading to them.

“Echoes of what happened here. The Fade bleeds into this place,” Solas said, pulling all eyes toward him. It was only as he continued that Cassandra dropped her grip on their arms. “This rift is not sealed, but it is closed… albeit temporarily. I believe with the mark, the rift can be opened and then sealed properly and safely. However, opening the rift will likely attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons,” Cassandra said, settling into the steely calm that always lingered around her in battle. “Stand ready!”

The entirety of the Temple seemed to take in a deep breath and hold it, hold it, hold it, until Cassandra yelled, “Now!”

Lavellan lifted their hand and, with a sickening pulling sensation in their hand, ripped the Breach wide open.

They weren’t sure quite what they were expecting to follow, they just knew it wasn’t the unnecessarily huge pride demon that stepped through the open rift.

The fight was a blur of motion. Their staff was never still and they lost track of how often they fade-stepped, dodging the monster that seemed to be always targeting them while also trying to get close enough to tear the Breach just a little wider. Every little tear felt like a knife in their hand, but it seemed to slow the demon, make it weaker, and they needed every edge they could get. Leliana’s archers helped, and the members of their party were all skilled, but none of them came away without shedding blood. Lavellan had a large gash above their left eye and a larger bruise blooming on their back from being thrown into a ruined wall; they ended up fighting half the battle with one eye closed, not having the time to push the blood from their eye. Solas had a bloodied temple, and they had watched him sway when that flying rock hit him, nearly knocking him unconscious. Cassandra had multiple tears on her arm from blows she redirected with her shield but couldn’t entirely block. Varric came away with a limp that left him open to attacks, requiring Cassandra to help cover him when he couldn’t dodge well enough, and had him swearing under his breath when the battle was done.

“Now! Seal the Rift!” Cassandra yelled, and Lavellan would have sniped something about not needing to be told if they weren’t focused on stitching the Breach back together.

They had closed a handful of small rifts, knew how this was supposed to go in theory, but the sheer size of the thing made it entirely different. They were making slow progress, pulling it back together from the edges. There was sweat on their brow from the exertion, one eye squeezed shut and jaw clenched from the pain of it. Creators, but it felt like ripping their bones out through their palm.

There was a scream only barely kept behind their teeth, and when Cassandra shouted, “Do it!” they were half tempted to send a fireball her way out of sheer irritation. The spark of annoyance helped, though, giving them just enough fuel to wrench it closed, that scream finally tearing loose.

They caught sight of the Breach pulling into a thin, green scar, fell quiet and panted once, twice, and then everything snapped to black. They didn’t even feel themselves hit the ground, slipping into unconsciousness on the way down.

Chapter Text

Lavellan woke up with a groan, pinching their eyes closed before sitting up, the heel of their right hand pressed to their temple, left hand clenched tight. Everything ached, from their head to their throbbing hand to their body where they’d hit the ground earlier. They swore quietly before finally opening their eyes to see a young elven woman frozen in place, a box slipping from her fingers.

“Oh! I didn’t know you were awake, I swear!”

There was the issue of the wooden room they were in, the strange, shemlen bed they were in, but it wasn’t a priority right now.

“Why are you frightened?” they asked, concern in their voice and their furrowed brow. “What happened?”

“That’s wrong, isn’t it? I said the wrong thing,” the woman said, baffling Lavellan more. Was there someone listening in that she was afraid to offend? Were they not alone?

“I don’t think so—”

They watched the woman fall to her knees, now both perturbed and confused.

“I beg your forgiveness and your blessing,” the woman said, head hung in respect. “I am but a humble servant. You’re back in Haven, my lord. They say you saved us. The breach stopped growing, just like the mark on your hand. It’s all anyone has talked about for the last three days!”

Lavellan blinked slowly, trying to figure out what to make of the situation.

“So you’re saying… they’re happy with me?” they asked. This young woman was an elf, but she was bare-faced, and it took little thought to understand that “they” were the Chantry followers. No one associated with the Chantry had ever been happy with them. Lavellan was tolerated at best among Andraste worshippers.

“I’m only saying what I heard,” the woman was quick to say. “I don’t mean anything by it.” Before Lavellan could answer, she jumped to her feet and said, “I’m sure Lady Cassandra will want to know you’ve wakened. She said ‘at once!’”

“And where is she?” they asked. Maybe Cassandra would have answers. Creators, they hoped she had answers.

“In the Chantry with the Lord Chancellor. ‘At once,’ she said!”

And with that, the young lady turned and fled.

They shook their head and blew out a slow breath before climbing out of the bed. They inspected the cabin they were in, from the few trappings to the desk, skimming over what looked like patient notes left on it. They didn’t want to go out and face whatever was waiting on the other side of the door, but stalling would improve nothing. They paused at the door, looking at the boots left next to it, and kicked them over with a snort. They didn’t know what sort of nonsense the Chantry had been saying while they were unconscious, but they had no intention of playing shemlen, especially not if it backed up a story about them that they hadn’t even heard yet.

When they opened the door, they stopped in the threshold. A crowd waited on the other side, a group of soldiers giving them a Ferelden salute, a cluster of whispering civilians. They were looking at them with shining eyes, full of hope, and it took all Lavellan had not to recoil. This wasn’t how shemlen looked at them, and the respect from the soldiers was no better. It was uncomfortable. It was unsettling. They almost turned around in the doorway to make sure there wasn’t someone else that those looks could have been for, but they knew the cabin behind them was empty. They had to swallow hard before stepping out.

The whispers followed them as they walked to the Chantry, their path lined with soldiers and onlookers. No matter what path they turned down, there were people gawking and kneeling and saluting. The snippets of conversation they caught were all about their survival of the Conclave, of sealing the Breach, a mix of incorrect pronouns, and Herald of Andraste, Herald of Andraste, Herald of Andraste. They were beginning to piece together the story the Chantry must have told, the conclusions people were coming to, and they didn’t like a single part of it.

It was no better when they approached the Chantry, a flock of Chantry brothers and sisters clustered by the door, talking in hushed words about being shunned, Chancellor Roderick, and the Herald of Andraste. Every time they heard the title, their stomach sank a little lower. They couldn’t help but pause at the door, needing to take a deep breath and dare themselves into action before they could push the doors open.

The main hall of the Chantry was deserted, and while they were glad they wouldn’t have to face any more of Andraste’s followers and that dreaded title, it also let them hear Cassandra and Roderick’s squabble clear as day. The only reason they didn’t have to pause before opening the door to the chamber everyone seemed to be in was because of a growing irritation from hearing their argument. Two people trying to decide their fate, as if they had the right, without them even there. Their pace quickened as they approached, eager to shut them down, to let them know just how little tolerance they would have for such talk.

And yet, before they could even open their mouth upon entering, Roderick spat, “Chain her. I want her prepared for travel to the capital for trial.” They squared their shoulders, ready to argue him down, ready to stand their ground regardless of what the guards behind them would do.

And again, before they could defend themselves, Cassandra said, “Disregard that, and leave us.”

At least someone had a toe on their side.

It was a relief when they looked over their shoulder to see the guards salute and close the door behind them, but the apprehension returned when they looked back to the table, surrounded with Chantry humans, determined to make decisions for them.

“You walk a dangerous line, Seeker,” Roderick said, eyes narrowed at Cassandra, who seemed indifferent, even disdainful.

“The Breach is stable, but it is still a threat,” she said, as if he were a fool for not realizing it. “I will not ignore it.”

The entire conversation made them grind their teeth in irritation.

“I did everything I could to close the Breach,” they said, not bothering to hide their frustration. “It almost killed me.”

Cassandra glanced toward them, eyes narrow, looking them up and down. She clearly hadn’t realized how much of a fight it had been to seal the massive rift, despite the way it knocked them unconscious. Lavellan ignored her; they didn’t like showing weakness to humans, but these people had a say in what happened to them, regardless of their hatred for that fact. If they intended to send them to their death, Lavellan wanted it to weigh on their conscience that they knew the stakes and that their death was entirely on their heads. They knew that Roderick would see nothing more than a dead, criminal knife-ear, and they didn’t have much faith in Cassandra, but she seemed at least a little better than the rest.

As if to prove their point, Roderick sneered, “Yet you live. A convenient result, insofar as you’re concerned.”

A muscle in their jaw jumped. Trust a shemlen to use their survival against them. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw them dead—that was more than clear.

“Have a care, Chancellor. The Breach is not the only threat we face,” Cassandra said, warning in her tone. Still, it wasn’t lost on Lavellan that her interest wasn’t in the possible loss of their life, so much as the loss of their use.

Leliana cut in, saying, “Someone was behind the explosion at the Conclave. Someone Most Holy did not expect. Perhaps they died with the others – or have allies who yet live.”

Lavellan and Roderick both looked at Leliana in surprise.

“I am a suspect?” he asked, and they were just as shocked at the accusation as he was. They didn’t expect the shemlen to even consider one of their own as the culprit.

“You, and many others,” Cassandra said, folding her arms over her chest. Lavellan was glad again that she seemed interested in keeping them alive; they would not be eager to brawl with her. Ever.

“But not the prisoner,” Roderick said in a tone of utter disbelief. He was not alone in the emotion.

“I heard the voices in the temple,” Cassandra said with pure conviction. “The Divine called to her for help.”

“So her survival, that thing on her hand – all a coincidence?” he asked.

“Providence. The Maker sent her to us in our darkest hour.”

Ah, there it was. Their precious Maker. Their innocence had nothing to do with them, nothing to do with skill or luck or pure accident, oh no. Everything was guided by their Maker, everything important always destined to be. Not for the first time, they wondered how such an absent god seemed to have such a hand in everything that mattered. It was hard not to roll their eyes.

“You realize I’m an elf,” they said, not bothering to make it a question. “A Dalish elf.”

They didn’t understand the human need to press their religion onto everyone else. The Lavellans never did that. To their knowledge, no Dalish did. They educated the curious, shared with those who were interested, but never ran around trying to convert people. Lavellan themselves would never even consider an outsider as some sort of chosen one. They’d believe in coincidence first. The whole notion just made no sense, regardless of the disapproval written on Cassandra’s face.

“The Breach remains and your mark is our only hope of closing it,” Leliana said as Cassandra stepped away from the table. At least she was quiet about any thought of Lavellan being sent by their Maker.

“This is not for you to decide,” Roderick said, outright affronted by the idea.

By the time he finished his words, Cassandra slammed a large, leather-bound tome onto the table.

“You know what this is, Chancellor?” Cassandra asked, a sort of smug surety forming on her face. “A writ from the Divine, granting us authority to act. As of this moment, I declare the Inquisition reborn.”

He looked stunned, for only a moment, before falling into outrage. Lavellan could only blink.

They had no idea what the Inquisition was.

Cassandra walked forward, backing Roderick up further and further until he bumped into a wall, poking him in the chest as she spoke.

“We will close the Breach, we will find those responsible, and we will restore order, with or without your approval.”

They all turned to watch Roderick leave in a huff. Lavellan was glad to at least have the one clearly out for their blood out of the way. With him gone, the two women turned to them.

“This is the Divine’s directive,” Leliana explained, resting her hand on top of the book. “Rebuild the Inquisition of old. Find those who will stand against the chaos. We aren’t ready. We have no leader, no numbers, and now no Chantry support.”

 “But we have no choice; we must act now. With you at our side,” Cassandra said, looking to them with something that might have been hope, might have been confidence, or might have been sheer determination.

Lavellan felt a little like they were asking for an answer that should have been obvious, but it was better to have all the facts before they actually agreed to the mad scheme.

“What is ‘the Inquisition of old,’ exactly?” they asked, looking between the two women.

“It preceded the Chantry: people who banded together to restore order in a world gone mad,” Leliana said. It was a nice idea in theory. It would be putting it into practice that had Lavellan concerned.

“After, they laid down their banner and formed the Templar Order,” Cassandra continued. “But the Templars have lost their way. We need those who can do what must be done united under a single banner once more.”

It was a small comfort to hear Cassandra admit that the Templars were flawed; it was more than they’d heard most humans concede.

“But aren’t you still part of the Chantry?” they asked. Most humans held the Templars up as perfect, but the Chantry-aligned above all else.

Cassandra snorted and said, “Is that what you see?”

Lavellan frowned. They understood the Chantry well enough to know the Conclave was important, but the details weren’t exactly something their Keeper taught.

Leliana glanced at Cassandra, and when she continued she was more polite about it than Cassandra was.

“The Chantry will take time to find a new Divine, and then it will wait for her direction,” she explained.

“But we cannot wait,” Cassandra continued. “So many grand clerics died at the conclave. No, we are on our own. Perhaps forever.”

She didn’t seem happy about the idea, but the fact that she considered it, much less admitted it, remained surprising. Still, it didn’t quite sit right with them. This had happened before.

“You’re trying to start a holy war,” they said, and they couldn’t keep the suspicion out of their tone.

“We are already at war,” Cassandra said, and it wasn’t the hard tone, the dismissal they expected. They were quietly grateful that she understood their misgivings. “You are already involved. Its mark is upon you. As to whether to war is holy—that depends on what we discover.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

They took a moment to think, a small hesitation before they said, “We’ll see how this goes.”

They weren’t against helping. They wanted to help. The idea of mass destruction and preventable loss of life didn’t sit well with them. If they walked away now, knowing they could have helped, that they could have saved lives, they wouldn’t be able to stomach it. They were no hero, and had no fondness for those outside their clan, but they also understood what was at stake here. Not to mention that if the world ended, their clan would go with it.

Still, they knew the reactions they would get as part of this Inquisition would not all be positive. There would be plenty who would hold it against them that they were Dalish, that they were a mage. They wouldn’t have support from the Chantry, or the Templars, or the Circles. There was no guarantee that they would be supported by any political factions either. The odds were stacked against them as is, and Lavellan wouldn’t pretend they were above jumping ship. They could still leave and retreat to their clan. They could use the mark to keep any rifts near the clan safe. The Lavellans were their first allegiance, their first priority.

But if they could save the rest, they aimed to.

Cassandra looked like she was about to say something, but Leliana interrupted, saying, “That is all we ask.”

The look on Cassandra’s face made it clear that it was not all she was asking, that they wouldn’t be able to return to their clan without arguing with her, but there was understanding in Leliana’s eyes.

Leliana had already agreed and Cassandra couldn’t contradict her without an open argument, so she settled for saying, “Help us fix this before it’s too late.”

They still had their misgivings, but when Cassandra held out her hand, Lavellan shook it all the same.